


I'll Stay

by AgentP127



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bittersweet, Feelings, M/M, Open Mic Night, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2020-11-26 16:36:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20933357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentP127/pseuds/AgentP127
Summary: The bar’s empty.No one ever stays, except Mark.He’ll never leave.Originally published:07/10/20Edited: 29/03/20





	I'll Stay

Mark takes a deep breath in, then out, releasing the nervousness that lives in his lungs, letting it escape into the stale air. He’s done this dozens of times, hundreds even, but it always feels like this; like he’s ripping his skin off piece by piece, revealing himself to the hungry wolves.

Like they’ll find out, like his world will crumble and fall.

He’d let it.

If he could, he’d let it.

** **

** _Jeno:_ **

_Soz bro, can't make it tonight. Tiff’s coming over and I've got an empty house_

_You’ll do great tho_

Mark doesn’t reply.

It’s not unexpected, like it’s been said, he’s been doing this for so long. He doesn’t need Jeno to stand by his side, making stupid jokes backstage when what he really wants is already there, waiting on the side lines.

He prefers it like this.

Just him and _him. _

He and Jeno are drifting anyway, he can feel it. It was unintentional at first, both having different commitments and priorities, but now; now it’s different. Mark lets the phone ring; the messages be left read.

He’s not even sure Jeno’s noticed.

_Good. _

It makes things easier.

It means less pretence, less involuntary acting. More unlit glances in the confines of backstage, more steady inhaling of the lavender scented laundry detergent filtering from behind him.

It’s butterflies now as well.

Mark can see the crowd from the side of the thick velvet curtain. It’s filled with teenage girls, most from his high school, but not all. He recognises some of the faces from away games. He sees them sat in the home side's bleachers holding various _‘Mark Lee’ _banners despite him playing for the opposing side. He never sees _him_ there though, despite all the looking around he does; but he understands, or at least tries to. _He_ stays in the comfort of the darkness, always hiding in the shadows. Truthfully, Mark really doesn’t understand, but he won’t ever say that out loud. He won’t admit it and ruin everything he’s carefully built up; he won’t push it over himself.

It’s definitely something they should talk about, but Mark’s too weak to try.

He takes what he’s given, and he’s grateful.

Mark bounces on the balls of his feet, shaking his hands out in rhythm. He feels the delicate drag of fingertips on his spine and he’s ready.

It’s all the silent encouragement he needs.

‘So, you might know our next performer!’ the mc says, glint in his eye as a wave of screams come from the crowd of girls crammed into the compact space. The small tables filled, their fruity perfume masking the smell of old wood and stained floors.

Johnny turns to the side and gives Mark a wink through the darkness, making Mark chuckle. Mark knows it’s just Johnny’s way of easing his nerves, he’s always had a soft spot for him.

‘Without any further ado, the irreplaceable rapper in all our hearts, the poet of our times… Mark Lee!’ The high-pitched hollas pierce the air, his ears screaming at the sound as he walks on to the harshly lit stage.

Don’t get him wrong he’s not ungrateful for the support, but he doesn’t _need_ it.

He doesn’t _crave_ it.

He knows what he wants.

He already has it.

Sometimes.

He doesn’t come here for that.

For the acceptance and glory.

He comes to let it out, to express himself; to tell the world about the love that he holds in his heart and in his bones. The claws at his ribs and massages his heart into a living beat.

Watching all those faces morph into wistful expressions of longing will never seem normal; not to him at least.

He starts, no backing track, just him. He hears words dripping from his tongue, it’s raw poetry morphed into something the masses can blindly ingest.

Something they can devour and feed off even though it’s not meant for them.

It’ll make them sick eventually, but for now it’s sustenance.

_‘Don’t hide behind me,_

_you shine too bright._

_Your touch is all I need,_

_It’s never not right.’_

His mouth moves on its own, not even thinking of the words his lips are spitting.

Too much emotion, not enough thought.

He focuses on the feeling, the fire inside him, voicing his innermost thoughts about how it feels to be with _him; his_ skin,_ his_ lips, everything he can’t get enough of.

His mind snaps back when he realises the risky words he’s about to say; the elastic might hurt, he doesn’t know yet.

_‘You’re all I think about._

_You’re worth more than me,_

_Things are strict,_

_They aren’t how I want them to be.’_

This is the closest he’s come to telling _him_ how he feels. The frustration of the last week being too much to keep inside any longer. He falters slightly on the last syllables, but none of the crowd notice, too absorbed in wanting to know Mark’s muse, probably hoping it was them.

He continues, telling the world how unfair it feels to have a secret and how he’d shout it from the rooftops if he could. He draws himself back in, reigning in the passion to finish with a sentiment he’ll never lose.

Words soft, the intensity of truth oozing through all the straight lines and curves.

_But I’m not going anywhere,_

_I’ll always stay,_

_I’m yours._

He’s drained, it’s out.

A shaky smile makes its way to his lips, he bows, and walks off stage. The smile Donghyuck gives as they brush past each other is a little small, a little bitter, but Mark’s just thankful it’s there in some form. It’s not perfect but Mark’s become resigned to the fact nothing is when it comes to them. He’s a mix of nerves and adrenaline, but at least he knows he hasn’t fucked everything up completely.

He gets distracted as he hears Johnny’s voice competing with feminine chatter and the sound of dull footfall over the old wooden floorboards. It cracks Mark’s heart a little more every time, something sour and painful coming to fill the void. He turns to look back at the stage, Donghyuck stood in all his golden glory; the lights illuminating the soft tufts of hair that fall over his forehead, his nimble fingers itching to start as he leans into the mic.

‘This is for you.’ He speaks, soft but clear over the last oblivious show goers bottlenecked at the door.

Eyes cast down, he begins to play, the soft sigh that leaves his lips amplified by the microphone.

Mark’s chest aches.

The bar’s empty.

No one ever stays, except Mark.

He’ll never leave.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a dream that I was working at a show and everyone left before the next act because they had seen who they came for and the last girl had to perform to an empty room. It was sad. 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/agent_p127)   
[cc](https://curiouscat.me/agent_p127)
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated. 
> 
> If you want something similar but longer, go read [Ashamed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21702130)


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